


Let Fate Decide

by gray_autumn_sky



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, tarzan au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2019-10-30 16:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17832170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gray_autumn_sky/pseuds/gray_autumn_sky
Summary: Robin is a clumsy British artist who joins an expedition to Africa. Regina is a Spanish girl who raised herself in the jungle. What will happen when their worlds collide?An AU inspired by Tarzan.





	1. Chapter 1

Regina’s jaw clenches as she stoops in the brush, just beyond the sandy beach, watching as a ship nears and praying it’ll continue on its way and never dock. Most of the time, that’s what happens when she spots a ship on the horizon—it just keeps going until it disappears from her sight.

Most of the time, but not always, and the sinking feeling in her stomach tells her that this time, the ship will dock and usher in all the uncertainty that comes with sharing her tiny island.

Her eyes narrow as she tries to take in the ship’s details without moving closer and potentially revealing herself.

The ship looks smaller than the others she usually spots hovering near the island and, though she’s not sure, she thinks she sees a gaggle of men hanging off the side, looking at the coast with monoculars pressed to their eyes, inspecting their “discovery.”

She rolls her eyes, thinking about how many times her island has been “discovered.”

Usually, the discoveries are made by military ships, but this ship seems too small to be one of those. The British flag waves from the top of the foremast, but there are no walled-in decks or visible windows indicating the officers’ quarters. She doesn’t see any cannons poking out of a gun deck and she doesn't spot gun swings mounted on top of the rails.

And the men hanging off the side look too plucky to be soldiers, and none of them don the red uniform she’s come to associate with soldiers.

Biting down on her lip, she bristles.

With military, there’s a routine.

They dock their ship and row toward the island in smaller boats. They bring with them their loud guns and loud mouths, and they spend a handful of days stomping around the beaches and jungle. They slash vines with their swords and trample plants with their heavy boots, and terrorize the small animals that are unfortunate enough to come into their path.

But they don’t stay, and for the most part, she can stay out of their way.

They raid the coastal village on the opposite side of the island, stealing their food and valuables, and sometimes their people. But at the first sign of bad weather or the roar of one of the large cats that call the jungle home, they flee. They board their ships and sail away in search of a new conquest, and they’re never seen or heard from again.

And that’s how she likes it.

Passengers, however, stay.

Instead of guns they bring with their bibles and an air of moral superiority with them. They cut down trees and build rudimentary huts that won’t withstand a storm. They scavenge for food, plucking berries and making poor attempts at catching fish, and they make the villagers feel sorry for them.

She hates that the villagers always fall for it. She’s seen it happen more than once.

They help the passengers build walls around their huts and they help them to reinforce their roofs. They teach them to hunt and fish and store food, and then the passengers insist on offering some form of repayment. Sometimes, that means lessons in civilized life, other times it means lessons in religion. Sometimes, it’s darker than that, and sometimes it’s a blend of all the passengers have to offer.

And that’s always the worst of it.

That’s why she’s alone...

They don’t seem to understand the harm that they do; instead, they seem entitled to it.

They seem entitled to everything.

Her stomach churns as the ship nears. It’s too close to the coast to not be coming for it.

Couching lower, she shrinks down and her shoulder rise to her ears. She regrets coming closer for a better look, wishing she’d stayed up on the bluff, keeping a safe distance from the beach. Momentarily, her eyes press closed and her heart beats faster, pounding in her ears as her knees begin to shake.

 _Ahoy_! she hears a man’s voice call out, and again, she shrinks back, flinching at her memories and trying to ward them off. She likes that most of the time she doesn't have to think about them, and she hates times like these when they come rushing back to her.

Her heart beats even faster—painfully, like it might explode—and she swallows the breath she’s holding.

She can see the passengers now. They’re still far off and, at the distance that they are, they look harmless. But she’s thought that before, and unlike the villagers, she doesn't make the same mistake twice.

She hears a man’s voice call out something—she doesn't hear the words, she couldn’t possibly over her heartbeat—and it sends a shiver down her spine.

Finally, as she watches two row boats being lowered down the side of the ship, she edges back and rises. Momentarily her legs feel shaky and she feels exposed; but she knows they can’t see her. She’s smarter than that—and just as the row boats hit the water, the turns on her heels and takes off running, propelling herself as far into the jungle as she can, and hoping with everything in her that they won’t stay long.

_____

Robin yawns as he sits up in bed, feeling vaguely nauseous from the light swaying of the ship.

He and the rest of the expedition arrived two days ago, finding an absolute paradise. From the white-sand beaches to the thick, lush foliage to the colorful birds he spotted flying over head, everything was just so beautiful.

The more he saw, the more he wanted to see, and as he kicks away his blanket and reaches for his glasses, deciding that today was going to be the day he did it. After all, he’d been brought along for the sole purpose of capturing the island’s beauty.

He pulls on his pants and a shirt, and hastily shoves his feet into his boots before rising to steal a glimpse in his looking glass. He grins at his appearance. He’s decidedly less green and the dark bags under his eyes that arrived a day after the crew set out on the expedition seem to have disappeared—and now that he considers it, he doesn’t feel even remotely nauseous.

The voyage was hard on him. Prior to signing up, he’d never been on a boat, much less a ship, and he’d been unprepared for just how unsteady he’d feel. Even when the air was still and the sun was shining, he felt uneasy, like he could never quite gain his footing. He stumbled and swayed whenever he was up on the main deck, and over the course of the six-week voyage, he could barely keep food down. The others on the expedition lightly teased him about his uselessness—or, at least, that’s how he chose to take it—often rolling their eyes and muttering comments about tossing him overboard.

But now, he felt refreshed.

The warm tropical air seemed to suit him and now that the ship was docked, he felt less queasy. As he gathered together his things, he could smell the porridge and salt pork cooking up on the main deck and he could hear John and Will planning out their day in the room down the hall, but none of what they wanted to do sounded pleasing to him. They seem more interested in the main land, while he hasn’t been able to take his eyes off the island. Their plans were too deliberate and calculated, too. He wasn’t interested in the business side of the expedition, and of course, their mission was far different from his. They were reporting back to a colonial governor about their findings and mapping out possible settlements, testing the soil to determine what could be grown and which would be most profitable. He, on the other hand, had paid his own way. He didn’t care about cash crops or being rewarded with a lucrative post; instead, he simply wanted to explore and soak in the beauty of an exotic land.

And if he could sell his pictures, that would be an added bonus.

In his bag, he’d already managed to shove his drawing pad and a set of watercolors, a little easel that was relatively lightweight and meant for travel, a journal and pen set, and already, it was bursting at the seams. He had a pouch of crackers that could be attached to his belt loop and a pair of binoculars that could be worn around his neck, but he had no idea how to carry his camera.

He frowned at the contraption. It was bulky and required its own bag. It came with a box of film and a heavy wooden tripod, and figuring out just the right angle and which buttons to press was tricky.

It’d been a gift from his grandmother—or, well, the woman he considered to be his grandmother—and she’d gifted it to him with the exact purpose of photographing this trip. She’d saved for more than a year to buy it for him, and though the Folding Kodak came out earlier that year and was far cheaper, she’d chosen this model because the salesman at the store ensured her that it was the best. She bought him a photograph album, too, that had pre-spaced spots for the 4x5 photo cards.

He’d hate to disappoint her by returning with an empty album.

So, he lifts first bag onto his shoulder and then slings the camera bag across his chest, a low  _oof_ sound escaping him as the weight falls to his shoulders. But after a few adjustments, he finds it more comfortable, and when he practices trudging across his room, he doesn't find it all that difficult—of course, the jungle terrain will be more of a challenge, but he decides its a challenge that he’s up for.

He ignores Gold and the others jeering at him as he walks down the deck, and offers John and Will a wave, calling out that he’ll be back by suppertime as he hops into one of the row boats and lowers himself into the water. Then, as he hits the water, he can’t help but smile as thrill runs down his spine. He draws in a long, deep breath and breathes in the hot air, turning his face up toward the sky to momentarily bask in the warmth—and then, after a moment, he rows himself to the coast.

Robin spends the next several hours just exploring. He doesn’t set up his easel or pull out his camera, instead, he decides to spend the day taking it all in; then, tomorrow, he’ll return to some of his favorite spots to paint and snap a few photographs. After all, there’s no rush. The expedition is meant to last months, and today is only the first day. He trudges through the thick foliage, unable to believe how bright and green everything is. He spots vines that look like something from a science fiction novel and flowers in colors he never knew existed. He takes a moment to watch birds soar above the trees and he finds himself mesmerized watching bright orange fish swim beneath the clear blue water.

It doesn't occur to him until he’s deep into the jungle that he should be afraid of the poisonous bugs and plants rumored to be here or the animals ready to tear him to shreds. For years, he’s read about the dangers of the African continent. Prehistoric bugs and large vicious cats, wild-eyed people armed with spears and plants that could strangle the life out of a human. But all that seemed a bit too far-fetched to be real, and every time it occurred to him that he should be worried, those thoughts were fleeting, quickly replaced by his amazement over how strikingly gorgeous everything was.

It was darker in the jungle than it was on the coast, but everything was still vibrantly colored, and thought he probably should have been more intentional about his path, he couldn’t help but let himself wander aimlessly, taking in whatever he could. His eyes were perpetually round and his mouth agape, and more than once he’d tripped over a low-hanging vine of a thick tree root popping up from the earth. He paid attention to every sound and made mental notes of the things he wanted to see again, and the back of his neck prickled with excitement.

All the while, he never saw a soul or any indication that anyone lived in this absolute utopia, and more than once, he wondered if humans had ever even touched this bit of earth. Every now and then, he was reminded that he wasn’t entirely alone though. Birds would sing and little animals would scurry out of his path, and every now and then, he felt like a pair of eyes was watching him.

But he saw no one and never dwelled on that particular feeling, he was enjoying himself far too much for that.

A bird called out and he spun around, looking upward to catch a glimpse of it, wondering if its feathers could possibly be as beautiful as its song—and as he did the weight of his camera shifted and his boot caught on a fallen branch. He lost he lost his footing in an ungraceful fall, and though there was no one around to witness it, he felt his cheeks warm with embarrassment.

He sighed as he looked down at his muddy hands, and it was then that he noticed just how blurry they were.

For the first time, he feels panic settling at his core as he spins his head around in search of his glasses. He sees splotches of green everywhere and suddenly, every sound seems augmented. His heart beats faster as he crawls around, patting his hands in the mud as he searches for his glasses—and then, for the first time, he hears footsteps. He looks around wildly, calling out a frightened  _who’s there?_  that goes unanswered, then as he hears footsteps nearing, he holds his breath and braces himself.

But nothing comes.

No animal roars. No teeth sink into his skin, and as a hand outstretched, he squints, watching his glasses come into view. His brow furrows and he blinks at them, but still not moving to take them and finding that he’s not yet able to. All he seems capable of is staring at the thin gold frames as they perch on the tips of a woman’s fingers.

For a moment, he doesn’t understand, swallowing hard as he reaches for them his heart racing as he tries to find his voice, wanting to thank her for coming to his rescue

But by the time he puts them on, she’s gone—completely vanished, like she was never there.


	2. Chapter 2

Robin lays on his stomach, a flickering candle illuminating the small room where he sleeps. He can hear the others aboard deck--drinking and laughing as they play a game of cards--and he sighs a bit wistfully wishing that it were already morning. **  
**

In the week they’ve been docked, he’s already filled his journal with beautiful things. Everyday he’s rowed to the island just beyond the boat and spent his days exploring; and everyday, he’s filled his journal with his findings. There are descriptions of the rich, lush jungle foliage and little sketches of birds and chimpanzees, and photographs he painstakingly rook of waterfalls and impressive ancient trees. Each day, he packs his his bag with his camera and equipment, his charcoal and watercolors, and a well of ink and his quill. He packs a sleeve of crackers and a tin of salted fish, and leaves as soon as the sun is up.

The others don’t quite understand it and seem bored of the island, much preferring the mainland that’s not far off; but he can’t seem to get enough, and still, he’s only seen a fraction of it.

But for every incredible, breathtaking thing he sees, he doesn’t see  _her_.

Of course, sketches of her fills the pages of his journal. Her dark, wide eyes, her unruly curls, her long fingers--every detail that he remembers, he’s sketched again and again. But there are parts that he can’t remember--is she short or tall? Fair skinned or dark? Or, maybe something in between?--and of course, there’s the parts he never knew.

Like how she came to be on this island and whether or not she’s alone.

He thinks he may never have those answers--and he thinks, that just maybe, she was a figment of his imagination.

The others certainly seem to think so…

Rolling onto his side, he turns the page of his journal and touches his fingers to the charcoal sketch in the corner of a page where he’d been doing a watercolor of a brightly colored bird. He smiles as he remembers, sitting against a tree in the shade, still hotter than hades, as he listened to a babbling brook that he now knows leads to an incredible waterfall. His skin glistened with sweat and he did his best not to let droplets of it fall to the page and ruin the painting--and as much as he tried to focus on the magnificent bird perched on a branch high above him, all he could think of was her.

So, he’d sketched her, if only to get her out of his head.

But it’d seemed to do just the opposite.

At some point, the others had caught a glimpse of his journal. They’d laughed and passed it around one night, poking fun at what they called finger paintings and doodles--and when they’d got to that first sketch of her, they’d asked.

And stupidly, he told them about the mysterious girl he met oh, so briefly, in the jungle.

They passed it around again and asked all sorts of lewd questions that made his cheeks burn and his fists clench. Even as he recalled it, he couldn’t bear to remember the awful things they said--and then, when they’d exhausted every possible joke they could think of, they decided she was either an ape or an illusion.

There was no way she could be real, and there was no way she could be as beautiful as he described.

John and Will, of course, defended him, as they always did, but even they seemed skeptical. It’d taken everything in him that night to hold back and control himself, and he’d had to remind himself that getting in a row with the rest of the expedition’s crew would only have him sleeping on the beach.

Turning the pages, he finds another sketch--this one in a lighter pencil--and he thinks of that spark he’d felt when their fingertips touched. It’d been no more than a handful of seconds--a fleeting moment as she handed him his glasses--but in the sketch, it was immortalized, standing still in time.

By the time he’d put his glasses back on, she was gone--and since then, each day that he returned to the island, he couldn’t help but home to catch a glimpse of her again, and he hoped this time, it could last more than a few seconds.

_____

The man who comes to the island day after day is different than the others.

He’s careful.

He moves slowly and deliberately. He doesn’t disrupt things. He quietly observes.

He doesn't have a gun to shoot at the animals who intimidate him or a sword to cut through the brush. If he touches something, he puts it back and gets out his little book and colors, or his strange little wooden box that he sets on a tripod stand. He spends hours  _just looking_ , not  _taking_.

Regina’s kept an eye on him from the treetops above, following him on his excursions.

She’s decided that, for the most part, he’s not a threat to her island--not to the plants or the animals or the birds, but she’s still not sure why he comes or how he’d respond to her. And though he seems relatively harmless--and terribly clumsy--he’s still a white man on this island and she’s learned not to trust those.

The natives on the other side of the island taught her well--though, apprehensive of her, at least at first.

She’s not like them, but she’s not like those who come and go--she’s something in between.

They’re good to her, though, and they taught her how to survive.

She was a child then--a little girl with her shipwrecked father--and it wasn’t until he took ill that any of them took pity on her. But one, elderly childless woman did--she answered her desperate, frantic cries of  _Ayudame! Ayudame!_ \--and though there was nothing she could do to save her father, she did save her.

What she didn’t know is that they had to accept her; after all, the woman who’d taken her in was the daughter of a former Chief, and the grandmother of the current one.

Her opinion mattered, even when everyone else disagreed.

So, she took her back to the village and gave her a warm place to sleep. She fed her and showed her the things she could eat and which she should stay away from. She taught her how to hunt and to bow and pray over an animal sacrifice and how to use each piece of the animal to honor it--and though she didn’t like to hunt, and avoided it as much as she could--she was thankful for the skill, even if she did consider it a necessary evil.

She grew up in the village and after a year or so, she hadn’t realized there was anything different about her.  She didn’t notice the distrust or apprehension; she didn't notices the eyerolls or headshakes when she cuddled up to her abuela. She had a handful of friends who accepted her, the way that children did, and though she missed her father terribly, she felt safe,secure and loved.

Then one day a ship arrived and everything changed.

She’d always been a curious child--too much for her own good--and she didn’t grow out of that curiosity as a teenager.

She watched as the ship docked and the men lowered rowboats to the water and rowed ashore.

It was lost on only her that the men in the boats looked like her.

But once it was pointed out, she was curious.

She thought of her father--her warm, loving father--and stupidly, against orders, she went to talk to the men, to see if they knew her father. After all, everyone on the island looked alike and knew one another, why shouldn’t these men who looked like her know her father?

So, she’d approached them.

And she’d asked.

And as it turned out, they didn’t know her father. But when she said her father’s name, they’d all looked at one another and whispered under their breath, and then told her while they did not know him, they did know her mother.

Her mother who she didn’t remember.

That detail had only further piqued her curiosity. She had a million questions and they seemed to have answered. So she went with them and she trusted them--and she never imagined that choice would cost her the fragile security that she’d grown up with.

The man--Leopold was his name--who appeared to be the leader of the expedition seemed to know most, and he took her back to his ship and introduced him to his daughter. After months at sea, the girl who was only a few years younger than her was desperate for a companion--and before the end of that first night, everyone but her seemed to decide that the girl should have one, and that  _she_ should take on the role.

But she wasn’t interested in the girls hair ribbons or porcelain-faced dolls.

She wanted to know about her mother.

And Leopold seemed to have those answers.

He talked of her mother’s beauty and told stories about her youthful days-- _ella era tan hermosa_ , he’d kept saying, over and over, like a chorus that captivated her.

She wanted to know more, so she trusted him--so she stayed and agreed to be the girl’s companion, at least for a little while.

When she returned to the island, everything was different.

The foliage was ravished and a fort had been constructed from tree trucks. It sat looming on the beach. Little metal balls were scattered through the sand, and as she walked the path the led to the village, she saw blood splattered on the trees.

Her heart pounded as she raced back, and when she arrived, she found the village forever changed.

The Chief was dead and so was his mother. So many of the familiar faces were missing from the crowd and they all looked at her with distrust in her eyes.

They’d always known better, they’d said. They’d saw her on the ship and they called her a traitor--and when she considered it, she couldn’t help but agree.

So, she left. She ran away and returned to the treetop hut her father had built--and there she stayed, isolated and alone.

Since that day, she’d seen other ships come and go. She watched as her home was ransacked. Some came with crosses and bibles and others with guns. Some of them looked like the menaces they were and other had kind faces that she could later see was merely a facade. Still, she didn’t approach them. She loomed above the trees, watching and waiting for them to leave, holding her breath until they sailed away.

But the ship she’d been watch for the last week still had yet to leave.

Most of the men went to the mainland and seemingly had little interest in her tiny island--and for that, she was grateful. The mainland had more to offer--more to loot and pillage.

However, there was that one who took interest in her island, that one who returned day after day, that one who sat all day sketching and writing, that one who tripped over tree trunks and vines and jumped back when he stepped on the tiniest of pebbles, that one who stumbled and fell into the the brook, that one who talked in a strange language to the birds and scurried to return everything as it was whenever he felt he’d disrupted something.

That one who wore glasses and pushed them up the bridge of this nose with two finger.

That one whose chest was now sunkissed rather than pale.

That one whose blue eyes matched the ocean.

That one that she can’t stop thinking about.


	3. Chapter 3

Regina's eyes flutter open and she stretches out on her cot. She yawns and rolls onto her side, stretching out her arms and legs as she stares out at the rising sun as peeks through the treetops. She can hear the birds chirping and she can smell the ocean just beyond her. The beauty of her world isn't lost on her—she's well aware of how beautiful this island is and how fortunate she is to live in a place of such wonder—yet, none of it makes her smile.

Sitting up, she looks around the tree house.

Today, she'll need to fish. She'll need to gather leaves and berries, refill her water supply… and that means gathering wood for a fire. Today will leave her achy and tired, but it'll also leave her well fed.

Sighing, she looks around, making a mental list of all the things she'll need to bring—and it's then that her eye catches the marks on the wall. Wistfully, she smiles, remembering how her father used to keep track of the days, telling her that when they were rescued they'd write a book of their island adventures. Back then, she believed both of those things would happen and each day, she set out to do something memorable to be recorded in her father's book. Every night, they'd sit together and he'd write down the things she told him. She told him about exotic birds she saw and about the songs they sang, about how powerful the waterfall was, all the beautiful flowers that she picked…

That book was still somewhere—likely in the trunk against the wall that contained all of her father's things—and thought sometimes she thinks she'd like to look at it, it'd be meaningless. She wouldn't be able to make out the words, and she could offer it no new memories. In the end, it'd just make her miss him all the more and remind her of her loneliness.

She looks away from the marks.

She's lost track of the number of days she's been on the island, lost track of the number of days she's been on her own.

Of course, that was to be expected.

She had no real measure of time outside of etch marks on the wall, recorded each time the sun set and gave way to the moon, marking the end of a day—and really, she wasn't sure that she wanted to know.

She doesn't like to think about it—she doesn't like to think about how many days she's gone without interacting with another human, how many nights she'd cried herself to sleep or how many nights she couldn't even muster the tears. She tries to avoid thinking about the opportunities she's missed or what her life would've been like had a storm not left her and her father shipwrecked—and truly, that's not hard. She has no real concept of what another life would have looked like.

But she had a glimpse of it—first with her father, again with the strangers who came to the island. She doesn't like to think about what might've happened had her father lived or had she not trusted the wrong people. On most days, she's able to push away the  _what ifs_ and able to focus on the present—though, that's sometimes hard to gauge.

Time moved in an interesting way on the island. It was slow and repetitive, passing without notice; and then, all of a sudden, things changed in the blink of an eye. One day she was a child and then next, she was a woman. There was nothing in between. It all happened without notice and it made her wonder what else she didn't know she was missing. But, of course, she couldn't even begin to wonder what another life might be like, she didn't know enough about the world to envision it—and as sad as that made her, she was glad for what she didn't know she was missing.

Blinking, she looks away from the wall and rises to her feet. There's a little tin tub in the corner—something her father salvaged from the wreckage—and though she's not entirely sure of its purpose, it has a lid and keeps bugs from getting into her water. She dips her hand in, smiling at the cool sensation of the water as she collects it, then brings it to her mouth to take a long sip. Then, when she's done, she returns the lid and collects her things—a spear to fish, a satchel to collect berries and a knife to prepare her food-and taking one last look around, she starts down the ladder, not wanting to waste any more time.

She spends the day performing mundane, but necessary tasks. She collects firewood first, then goes down to the ocean, catching it in two large buckets and trudging carefully back to her little camp. She builds a fire and boils it, then puts a canvas tarp that'd probably once been part of a ship's mast over it to keep it clean as it cools. As it's cooling she goes back to the water to fish. She's mindful of the ship in the distance and the men who reside there, and she does her best to stay hidden. She finds a rock around the bend, out of their line of sight but keeping them in hers, and she stretches out and waits.

She hates this part.

Munching on dried berries, she focuses on the water, waiting for just the right moment—a moment that seems to take hours to come.

And that's when she first notices him, rowing himself to the island's coast.

She smiles a bit and cranes her neck. His arms are getting more muscular than they were when he arrived, his skin more golden than white, and his face a bit scruffier.

She enjoys him—from afar.

Her attention shifts away from him as she sees a fish nearing the rock—and then, by the time it's speared, his little boat sits on the sand and he is nowhere to be found.

Wistfully, she smiles, wondering what he'll be up to today.

 

* * *

* * *

 

It's well-past midday by the time she makes her way to the waterfall. The sun is hot and her body's sore from the morning's hard labor. She still has one more task, but it's an easy and relatively enjoyable one.

When she reaches the bank, she strips off her clothes and soaks them in the water, squeezes them in her hands. She lays them out on a smooth rock, sitting on her folded legs as she roughly rubs out the dirt and sweat, and once she's through, she dips them back into the water and lays them out again, waiting for the sun to dry them.

There's a part of her that knows she could make better use of this time.

There's food to separate and cook, water to boil and salt to sift.

But the cool water is too alluring, and it's not like those remaining tasks won't be waiting for her whenever she returns—and it's not like anyone other than her needs them done.

So, she walks back to the bank, letting the water pool around her feet. It's cool and soothing, and it's not long before her whole body is submerged. She floats on her back, peddling absently with her feet. A bit awkwardly, she reaches up and pulls down her hair, letting it fan out around her in the water as light rippling waves coast over her body and the sun warms it. In the distance, she can hear the soft whirring of the waterfall and birds chirping in the trees that surround the little reservoir.

Her thoughts float away, replaced by nothing, and for a while, she loses herself in it—and then, an unnatural splash disrupts the peace.

She tips herself forward, standing in the shoulder-deep water.

She blinks and smooths back her hair, her heart racing as she's watching him—as she watches her stranger—kneeling at the bank, filling up some sort of jug.

She shrinks down in the water, watching as he takes a long sip. A giggle escapes her as he pours the rest of it over his face, dropping the jug down as he rubs his hands over his face and pushes his fingers into his hair. It occurs to her that she should leave, that she should go while he's still distracted; yet, she can't quite force herself to move and she's been so curious about him—and, truthfully, his mere presence makes her feel less alone.

So, instead of leaving, she stays, floating backward toward a little patch of rocks that extends from the bank on the opposite end of the water to keep herself hidden away. She grins as he sets up a little wooden triangle and brings out a box of colors. His eyes shift upward as he stares to the treetops—and a bit hesitantly, she follows his gaze. She smiles as she realizes he's looking up at a colorful bird, perched on a branch. Its wings, which are folded back, are bright red and yellow, it's blue head contrasts it beautifully and its green back blends in with the bright leaves behind it. It's large—a male—and behind it sits a little nest, and for whatever reason, that makes her a bit sad.

She looks away, looking back to the stranger. He's still watching the bird, gazing up at it appreciatively—and that makes her smile again.

He seems to be enamored by the bird—he seems enamoured by everything on this island.

She watches him for a few minutes, wondering about him.

She thinks of him often—usually at night as she's laying on her cot, looking out at the black sky, physically exhausted but unable to turn off her thoughts. Sometimes, her thoughts are merely inquisitive—she wants to know who he is and why he's come to the island, she wants to know what makes him come back day after day while the others in his company row themselves toward the mainland, and she wonders what's in the book he carries with him no matter where he is.

She wonders about his tools—she doesn't know what they are, but he's always fumbling with them, pointing them in the direction of birds and flowers, and other beautiful things. At first, this worried her, but it doesn't anymore. She knows that he's not there to bring hurt; in fact, it seems quite the contrary.

Then, there are other nights when she pictures him there with her in her tree house. Sometimes, those thoughts are perfectly innocent—he's just there with her, there to talk to until she falls asleep—and then there are other times when her thoughts are far from innocent. She thinks of what it'd be like to kiss him, to touch his skin as she peels off his shirt, to let her body curl around his as they pleasure one another, to fall asleep, sated and content on his chest…

Again, her thoughts halt—but this time, it's not due to relaxation. This time, it's the exact opposite—he's looking at her, or at least in her direction. His eyes are narrow and he's taking a few steps away from his colors.

Swallowing hard, she tries to shrink herself down in the water, but it's too shallow where she is to really hide. Her heart starts to race as he cranes his neck and takes a few steps onto the wet sand at the threshold of the reservoir, his eyes still focused on her—and then, as she takes another step, he loses his footing, falling face-first into the water.

For a moment, she freezes, her eyes wide as she watches him floundering—and then, as he picks up his head, coughing out water as he pats the water in search of his glasses, floating just beyond him.

She blinks as a giggle bubbles out of her, and then she scurries out of the water as he regains his bearings. By the time he's focused and alert again, she's hiding in the brush. He leans in as he wades deeper into the water, squinting as he looks to the rocks where she'd been a moment ago—and then, when he sees nothing, he sighs, his shoulders slumping as he turns back, walking up from the water and returning to his colors.

She's not quite sure what she's feeling, unsure if it's relief or disappointment.

She leans back against a tree, watching him brush his colors onto a board, his eyes shifting back and forth between the colors and the bird. If she were smart, she'd take the opportunity to leave—yet, she can't quite bring herself to do that. She tells herself it's because her clothes are still drying on the rock and that there's no way she could claim them unnoticed—but truly, if she wanted to get away, she could go now and return later for her clothes.

And even if she didn't, they are merely rags by this point.

When her heartbeat returns to normal, she eases herself a bit closer, laying out on a patch of moss, hidden behind a bush. She peeks out and watches him—there are splotches of color on his cheeks, color caked on his fingers, and when he wipes his hands on his shirt, he frowns down at it adorably before reaching down and tugging off his shirt.

She sits up a little straighter, her eyes lingering at his chest and arms.

For a while now, she's noted his physical changes—noted the way he was growing stronger and darker—but she's never seen him this close up.

He crouches down, balling up his shirt and stuffing it into his bag, smiling as he pulls out a little tin. She leans in, watching as he rises, dipping one of his brushes into it before spreading it across his board—and again, he smiles at whatever it is he's done.

It's then that she notices his dimples sunken into his cheeks near the corners of his mouth.

He's beautiful, she thinks privately to herself—beautiful and thoughtful, with kind eyes and likely a kind soul.

Her stomach stirs and once again, she can't quite figure out what it is that she's feeling—she only knows that she likes it, that she can't look away from him, and that she wishes she were braver.

Something catches at the back of her throat and she finds herself thinking of the chores she's yet to do. Reluctantly, she pulls herself up and steps lightly into the trees—and when she looks back, he's again looking in her direction, eyes narrowed as he squints to see.

But he shakes his head and looks away.

And this time, she's well aware of what she feels—well aware that it's disappointment and not relief.

So she takes a breath and looks back at him, mustering all of her courage and bravery—and likely her stupidity—a few steps back toward the reservoir.

And there he is, facing her on the opposite end of the bank, looking directly at her through his gold-rimmed glasses, watching as she steps toward the water, offering her an awkward little wave and an over-eager smile.


End file.
